


No Regrets, They Don't Work

by orphan_account



Series: Sherstrade Domesticity [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Affirmation, Comfort, Declaration of Love, History, M/M, Past Viclock, Viclock, familiarity, past mistakes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2017-02-08
Packaged: 2018-09-22 21:41:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9626759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It takes a face from the past for Sherlock to remember what he has in the present.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A man must be big enough to admit his mistakes, smart enough to profit from them, and strong enough to correct them. - John C. Maxwell

Sherlock drew the cigarette from his lips and inhaled a second sharp breath before exhaling a cloud of smoke with his head thrown back. The ghost-like wisps of air vanished into the clouded sky above him and he pondered the fluffy, white space above him contemplating the beauty of the hundreds of stars, currently invisible but never gone. He dropped his head and brought the cigarette to his lips again, inhaling another lungful of smoke. He had planned to be inside over twenty minutes ago, having been roused from a lie in by Greg ringing him with something he thought he’d _’probably be interested in’_. He had given him minimal details so his excitement was not yet piqued - and he was tired, so smoking prior to actually doing any work felt more like a win than going inside and it even felt better than being able to see Greg for the first time since they’d said goodnight in bed the night before. 

‘Those things’ll kill you, didn’t I always tell you that?’ Sherlock snapped his head to his left and his mouth hovered open in shock. ‘No hello?’ 

Sherlock’s eyes moved up and down the figure of a man he hadn’t seen in some months and licked his lips, swallowing painfully in his suddenly dry throat. He threw his cigarette to the ground beneath him and jogged down the three steps he’d stopped midway on, outside of Scotland Yard, and jumped the bottom step to come to a halt in front of the cutting figure. ‘What are you doing here, Victor?’ 

‘I wanted to know if what Mycroft was saying was true.’ Victor Trevor’s voice was as smooth as Sherlock remembered and it made his chest flutter. On first glance, Sherlock could see nothing that had changed about him at all. ‘So you really are working for the Met? I thought Mycroft was being...well, Mycroft.’ 

‘I’m not working for the Met,’ Sherlock insisted sharply. ‘And that’s not a reason. Why’re you here?’

Victor held up his right hand defensively, ‘Sorry, no - your sugar daddy works in there,’ he pointed to the large building and scanned it with his narrow green eyes. He huffed a sarcastic laugh and used both hands to tightened the navy scarf that hung around his thin neck. 

‘What?’ Sherlock quirked his lips, unsure if he was nervous or angry. ‘What are you doing here?’ Sherlock asked him again, stiffening his entire body. He knew that Victor could read his body language almost as well as Mycroft could, but it was beyond him to contain the rush of so many different emotions he felt at seeing him, let alone the shock of not having realised that this day might come at some point. He’d allowed himself relaxation with Greg Lestrade - his past seemed so far away when the door to their flat was locked. Standing before Victor now brought back an abundance of memories, many of which he wished he could shut down, and he couldn’t stop the flood as they rushed through his entire brain. 

‘I’m working, Sherlock.’ Victor finally offered an amicable response. ‘My professional capacities vary, and travel is my friend. You know me,’ he shrugged, ‘Never in the same place for too long.’ He smiled at Sherlock with the same sly, cocksure smile he always used to cast and Sherlock hated how familiar it felt. 

‘For Mycroft?’ Sherlock asked, pushing his hands into the pockets of his coat and made a mental note to call his brother with a rant filled with every curse word he could muster later on. He wasn’t sure why he was entertaining Victor’s conversation. He could turn and walk away, but he felt like he was rooted to the spot - mentally rooted.

Victor tilted his head slightly, ‘On some things, yes. Other work comes from...other sources.’ 

Sherlock shook his head bitterly. ‘And right now, coming here, stalking me, is that on Mycroft or your _other sources_?’ He raised his eyebrows and tried to steady the beating of his heart. He felt nervous, frightened even, perhaps, and equal parts desperate to run and keen to stay to see what would happen if he didn’t do what Victor was expecting. And he knew what he was expecting him to do - he was expecting him to argue with him. Victor thrived on verbal aggression and Sherlock was sure he wouldn’t give it to him. 

‘Collaboration, in fact.’ Victor said steadily. The man paused and seemed to be going through his mind in the same way Sherlock was, suddenly conflicted between feeling angered and nostalgic. He looked down to his feet a moment as they stood silently in the chilly London air and then took a deep breath as he looked back up, his green eyes fixing on Sherlock’s face. ‘The night I left…’ 

‘Don’t,’ Sherlock winced. ‘I don’t want to hear it,’ he shook his head and his curls tumbled. ‘It’s done, and clearly neither of us are those people anymore.’ 

‘I was high, and that’s no excuse, but you know I never would have hurt you, don’t you?’ He said, more softly, less...catty. It made Sherlock feel uneasy; this Victor was the Victor he knew from University, who had sweet-talked him into fellation in the bathroom, who had introduced him to heroin, who had showed him how bad he could make things and yet feel drug-induced nonchalance about it. 

‘Now, maybe,’ Sherlock said with a snort and without blinking, surprising himself at his own honesty. ‘But it’s done,’ he insisted. 

Victor widened his eyes, ‘I know that. But having the opportunity tell you as much has been on my mind for a long time. I know that history can’t repeat itself, and perhaps that’s not an entirely bad thing, but it doesn’t make it a good thing, either…” 

‘Stop it,’ Sherlock looked away, breathing in heavily. 

‘There’s the face I always loved; murky, unreadable but _unmistakable_.’ Victor reached out his left hand, attempting to touch Sherlock’s cheek. 

Sherlock jerked his head back quickly, eyes sharp and tongue suddenly bitter. ‘Don’t touch me… we’re outside of a building full of law enforcement, do you really want to try this here?’ He glared at the slightly taller man before him and let his eyes recall every hair, every freckle, every expression he’d ever documented about the six-foot-four, slim-framed, Irish-eyed man who oozed charm sex-appeal. 

Victor lowered his arm slowly. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, apparently sincere. ‘You’re right - you always were.’ He stood straight for a moment, just watching Sherlock’s microexpressions. ‘I wondered if you’d have cut your hair, rid yourself of everything I liked about you. I’m pleasantly surprised to see you let those angelic things stay,’ he nodded to Sherlock. ‘You always hated your hair, always said you looked like a cherub and nobody took you seriously but you kept the curls because I liked them.’ Victor wet his lips with a swipe of his tongue. ‘Does Inspector Lestrade like them, too?’ 

Sherlock looked down at his feet then slowly up at Victor. ‘What are you doing?’ He asked and his voice was undeterminable. He didn’t sound angry, or even sad, he just sounded...confused. 

‘Testing the water,’ Victor said quietly, but Sherlock heard it despite the noise of the city around them. 

‘It isn’t working,’ Sherlock said firmly. 

Victor smirked. ‘Is it not?’ They stared at one another for too long a time; Sherlock’s blue eyes turned steel grey and his pupils shrunk, turning to pinpricks as he scanned the face of the man before him. Victor’s expression remained firm and controlled, his eyes fix ad steady, focusing on the tiny freckle of brown in Sherlock’s iris. The right side of Victor’s mouth tugged up slightly and he nodded his head. ‘...the cavalry,’ he whispered.

Sherlock turned to see Greg coming down the concrete steps with Sally Donovan two yards behind him. He swallowed heavily, and drew his hands from his coat pocket. When Greg came to within a foot of Sherlock, the younger man could see his concerned frown. ‘What’s going on, Kid? I thought you were coming in…?’ Greg thumbed over his shoulder, looking at Sherlock with mild agitation. He seemed, to Sherlock, to be torn between telling him off and asking him if he was okay. 

‘Sorry...just, um, having a smoke,’ Sherlock pulled a face. 

Greg nodded his head, unconvinced. ‘Who’s your friend?’ He scanned his eyes up and down Victor suspiciously. 

‘Just an old acquaintance,’ Sherlock said quietly. 

In a moment, despite Sherlock’s often vocal accusations toward Greg’s stupidity, suspicions became realisation in the DI’s brain and he looked between the two men. Pointing his right index finger at Victor, Greg dipped his head so his face was squaring into Sherlock’s. If it were anyone other than him, Sherlock might have found the behaviour intimidating. ‘...Victor?’ Sherlock cast his eyes at Victor, then at Sally, then fixed his blue gaze firmly on Greg’s face and nodded in the smallest of movements. Greg’s body visually tightened and Sally frowned in confusion at the three men. 

‘Perhaps I’ll go,’ Victor said, carefully innocent and calculatingly manipulative. ‘It was _good_ to see you again, Lock. Let’s hope Mycroft permits more...chance encounters?’

Greg scoffed and kept his eyes fixed firmly on the slim fellow as he walked away, glancing back once or twice until walking steadily along the street. Sherlock watched Greg’s face, trying to guess his reactions or what his next words might be, but he found reading his rapidly shifting facial expressions to difficult to read. After a moment of quiet between them, Greg turned so Sally as she lingered behind them. ‘Can you give us a minute?’ Sally nodded her head awkwardly, for once biting back any comments she might have had prepared to fire at Sherlock, and folded her arms as she climbed back up the concrete steps of the building behind them slowly. 

‘I didn’t…’ 

Greg held up his hand, silencing Sherlock. ‘Did you ask him to meet you?’ 

Sherlock shook his head sharply, ‘I haven’t been in touch with him Greg.’ 

‘How did he know where you were?’ Greg asked, shrugging his shoulders with exaggeration. 

‘Mycroft! Victor’s a civil servant… among a lot of other _stuff_. I swear, I didn’t know he was even in London anymore.’ Sherlock insisted, his voice catching a little against his desperation to make Greg understand. 

Greg opened out his arms and pulled Sherlock in against him, for the first time in a long time he was apparently unconcerned who was looking. ‘Are you alright? Did he hurt you…’ he stretched his arms back out, giving himself the opportunity to look at Sherlock more carefully. 

‘He didn’t do anything,’ Sherlock shook his head, and then wiggled his arms until Greg let him go. 

‘I’ll kill your brother; he knows that man, he knows what he did to you…’ Greg’s jaw stiffened. 

‘I did those things to myself,’ Sherlock said, pushing his hands into the pockets of his coat. ‘Can we stop standing in the street staring at one another like we’re Romeo and fucking Juliette, and just go inside?’ 

Greg frowned, ‘What did he say, you’re…’ he struggled for words. ‘I don’t know, you seem shaken up. Are you sure you’re alright?’ Sherlock nodded at him in a quick jerky movement. But Greg remained unconvinced, and his eyes flicked over Sherlock in something alarmingly near distrust. ‘C’mon,’ he jerked his head, ‘Let’s go in…’ 

 

 

Greg’s mood remained dark throughout the day; he couldn’t bring his thoughts much higher than Victor, and the way Sherlock’s body was tight and his face was pinched when the man was standing before him. He’d raced through the nights he’d first known Sherlock, high and erratic, and how he’d always say he was going home to be with Victor, going back to Victor’s, and the one night he’d admitted that if it weren’t for Victor he’d ‘never have known the beautiful serenity that came with injecting…’. Sherlock, too, remained quiet. They barely spoke and if anyone outside of their little unit had noticed their relationship before they would have assumed they’d broken up by how little they interacted - no looks, no secret smiles, no slips in the way Greg said ‘Kid’ or ‘Sunshine’ instead of Sherlock. 

Still, Sherlock walked dutifully beside Greg when six thirty arrived and the older man bid his team goodnight in favour of going home. They walked quietly toward Greg’s car and Sherlock reached out and slipped his hand into Greg’s, lacing their fingers together. Greg looked down at their combined limbs, then across to Sherlock’s face. ‘Kid, you’re shivering…’ 

‘It’s cold,’ Sherlock shrugged his shoulders and spoke quietly. ‘Are you still mad at me?’

‘I’m not mad at you, Sherlock - I’m just…’ Greg stopped walked and turned, facing Sherlock head on. ‘I barely know that guy but I hate him, for everything he dragged you into and the way he treated you when you’d both been on it.’

‘Yeah, both,’ Sherlock insisted. ‘I’m not blameless or a victim, Greg, I was in love with him.’

‘Are you still?’ Greg asked. ‘You asked me once if I missed Maggie and I was honest, I told you I probably always would. Do you miss him?’ 

Sherlock shook his head, ‘I don’t miss him and I don't love him. I don’t miss the person I was when I was with him. ...I used to, though, and for a moment when I saw him today I wondered if that feeling would come back, and it scared me because I don’t it to.’ His blue eyes scanned every inch of Greg’s face; every wrinkle, every laughter line, every pockmark, every pore. ‘I saw him and it hit me just how much I love you, as if I hadn’t ever considered it before. It made my heart beat so fast with the fear that I’d be taken back to then...with the sound of his voice and I’d have to decide what I wanted. But that didn’t happen. I don’t miss him, and seeing him made me realise that I’d already realised that. Because all I could honestly think of was how much it would hurt to lose you if I ever decided somewhere inside of me that I wanted to be with him again.’ 

In Sherlock’s fast-talking jumble of speech, Greg heard passion and declarations that made his heartbeat increase and his abdomen lurch with a sudden rush of emotions he couldn’t name individually, they were so plentiful. He loosened Sherlock’s right hand from his left and reached up, capturing Sherlock’s cheek in his palm, fingers laced into his curls around his ear, and moved in slowly to kiss him. He freed his other hand and wrapped it around Sherlock’s slim waist, beneath the billowing material of his open coat, and held him firmly against his own body. When the kiss broke, Sherlock’s eyes slowly fluttered open and Greg stared deeply into them. ‘As if I would ever let him get the chance to make you think you deserved him.’


End file.
